


we gamble with desire

by mychem



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, LORD i have so many ideas for this fic rip me, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship, for once ive actually PLanned out a fic all the way to the end, ok not quite but still its better than usual go me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4708319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mychem/pseuds/mychem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thanks!” he says happily. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? Fuck, I’m not good at this. I mean, uh, crap, I’m not good at this. Is crap allowed in a school? I should probably ask. Or maybe Google it, since people probably expect me to know that. Oh! I’m Ge- Mr Way.” Frank’s not sure which bit of information is hardest for him to process – this pretty guy’s stream of consciousness, the fact he swore or the fact that this pretty black-haired man is <i>Mr Way</i>, his new <i>art teacher</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we gamble with desire

**Author's Note:**

> this was inevitable listen im just weak when it comes to t/s and ive actually only written one before Back in the day aka in 2011 which was AWFUL and has been purged from the face of the earth and remains only on my ipod however i MAY have used some bits of it as inspiration for this Nobody Will Know though 
> 
> thank you to [georgie](http://twitter.com/problemalex) and to [emily](http://twitter.com/bulletsmp3) for listening to me whine about the ideas i have for this fic and beign so enthusiastic You Are Both Wonderful
> 
> also come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/attjcdemos) and [tumblr](http://thanksyouforthevenom.tumblr.com)

Frank’s never been a believer in early mornings.

It’s one of the myriad of reasons he hates school. As if suffering through seven hours of Pythagoras theorems and analysis of Shakepeare weren’t enough, he has to do it all at _eight o’clock in the morning_. Frank’s pretty sure it counts as some form of torture.

Frank’s dislike of school and therefore his tendency to pretend it doesn’t exist has led to many arguments with his parents, ending with his mother threatening to drive him to school every morning and watch him until he’s entered the building. Thankfully, Bob had passed his driving test the weekend after that argument had taken place, and Ray (who is easily Frank’s mom’s favorite son, despite Frank being an only child) had bargained with Frank’s parents to let Bob drive Frank to school. That had come with a plus side and a downside; on the plus side, Frank doesn’t get dropped off by his _mom_ and gets to spend time with his two best friends. On the downside, Bob takes about forty years to drive the ten blocks from Frank’s house to school since he refuses to go above half the speed limit, meaning Frank has to get picked up at approximately five a.m. if he wants to get to school on time.

Frank’s just finishing his hastily-fixed and slightly underdone Poptart on the first day of senior year (fuck, when did he get so old?) when he hears Bob’s horn outside.

“Frank!” his mom yells from upstairs, and Frank rolls his eyes.

“I’m _going_!” he shouts back, shoving the rest of his Poptart into his mouth, grabbing his bookbag and running out of the door.

“Running late on your first day of senior year?” Bob asks, deadpan, raising an eyebrow as Frank slams the car door shut behind him.

“Shut up,” Frank mumbles around his mouthful of Poptart. Bob raises his other eyebrow and starts the engine. Frank hates Bob.

“Would you believe I have art first today?” Ray complains. “How am I supposed to get my creative juices flowing at eight a.m.?” Frank snorts.

“I’m sure Mrs Wilson can think of some other way to get at your, er, _creative juices_ ,” he says, snickering as he dodges the clumsy swat Ray gives him from the passenger seat. It’s well known that Mrs Wilson has a bit of a thing for Ray.

“She retired at the end of last year, remember, dude?” Ray says. “I’ve got a new teacher. Some guy called Mr Way.” Frank frowns. He should probably have read his schedule. He’d assumed he’d have Mrs Wilson again too, and that he could continue handing in half-assed pieces of work that he’d gotten Ray to do the lesson before it was due in. New teachers were always harder to figure out; they all acted strict in their first few weeks, but then some gave up the act. Some, though, stuck with it, and those were the kinds of teachers Frank was infamous for not getting on with. _Dislikes and challenges authority_ , as one school report had aptly put it.

“I’m glad I dropped art,” Bob puts in, slowing down as he approaches the traffic light, which is still green. Frank hates Bob’s driving.

“Maybe you could take Drivers Ed again,” Frank says, “and learn that a speed limit is something to be _adhered to_ , not something to be afraid of.” Bob flips him off, not looking around. “Is that one hand off the wheel I see there, Robert Bryar?” Frank asks sternly, dissolving into giggles when Bob uses both hands to flip him off.

“I would say don’t distract him, we might end up in a crash, but at the speed he’s going…” Ray says, trailing off. Bob flips him off too, and Frank giggles delightedly. Ray seldom takes part in Frank’s relentless Bully Bob Into Driving At A Normal Speed campaign, but it’s _so worth it_ for the few times he does.

“Fuck you both,” Bob says placidly. “I hope you enjoy lifts to school with Frank’s mom.” It’s an empty threat and they all know it, but Frank stays silent for the rest of the journey anyway, yawning intermittently until Ray rolls his eyes and tells him to sort his body clock out.

They arrive at school just as everybody is beginning to amble inside, meaning lessons are about to start. Frank nearly leaves the car without his bookbag and then almost loses his arm in the process of trying to get it back before the car door shuts behind him, much to Bob’s amusement and Ray’s disapproval.

“See you at lunch,” Bob says when they walk through the big double-doors leading into the main corridor, heading off to a lesson that isn’t art or (unfortunately) Drivers Ed. Ray and Frank exchange looks.

“Tell me what he’s like,” Frank says. Ray rolls his eyes and makes an exasperated noise, which Frank takes as agreement. He likes to have a head start on these people.

“I’m going to be _late_ ,” Ray says, and walks off, leaving Frank standing alone in the hallway. It occurs to him that he should probably head off to his lesson too, but from the quick glance he gave his schedule a few days ago he has a horrible feeling it might be History. Further investigation of the already tatty piece of paper in his pocket only confirms this.

“Fuck,” Frank mutters to himself, scowling as he puts the schedule back in his pocket. Someone behind him makes a noise that suspiciously like a stifled laugh, and Frank turns around, eyes narrowed, ready for a fight. If he gets in trouble, he might be able to skip History.

“Sorry,” the person apologizes. He’s taller than Frank (no surprises there) and he’s wearing a waistcoat, presumably in some semblance of formality that’s completely undermined by his crooked tie and rolled-up sleeves. “It’s not every day you find someone talking to themselves in an empty corridor.” Frank looks around – fuck, it _is_ empty, which means he’s _already_ late for his first lesson on his first day back – and then back at the guy. He’s got black hair that’s falling into his eyes a little, and a hopeful, earnest, open expression on his face. He’s fucking pretty, and it kind of startles Frank. He’s not used to pretty guys interacting with him.

“Well, it’s not every day you have History first period,” Frank says, and the guy laughs.

“I totally sympathize,” he says. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where the art classrooms are…?” he trails off awkwardly.

“Down there, first left and up the stairs and then on the right,” Frank says, pointing down the right fork of the corridor. The guy beams at him, fucking _beams_. Frank wonders whether he actually woke up this morning or whether he’s still dreaming.

“Thanks!” he says happily. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? Fuck, I’m not good at this. I mean, uh, crap, I’m not good at this. Is crap allowed in a school? I should probably ask. Or maybe Google it, since people probably expect me to know that. Oh! I’m Ge- Mr Way.” Frank’s not sure which bit of information is hardest for him to process – this pretty guy’s stream of consciousness, the fact he swore or the fact that this pretty black-haired man is _Mr Way_ , his new _art teacher_.

“Oh,” Frank says, sounding surprised. “You’re my new art teacher.” Mr Way pulls a face and scratches at the back of his head.

“Um, yeah?” he says. “I mean, yeah, yeah, I guess I am. You like art?”

“Uh,” Frank says carefully. “I like…I like art, but I’m not very good at creating it.” Mr Way smiles that brilliant, happy smile at him again.

“Art is in the eye of the beholder,” he says.

“I think that was beauty, sir,” Frank says. Mr Way waves his hands dismissively, still grinning.

“Art is beauty, beauty is art,” Mr Way says, and then his smile gives way to a panicked expression. “Oh, shit, I’m late already, aren’t I? Fuck- sorry, sorry, I know, no swearing at school.” He grimaces, and Frank tries (unsuccessfully) to hold back a giggle.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Frank says jokingly, and Mr Way’s face lights up again. Frank immediately resolves to work extra hard in art this year to try and get that look out of him again (which means make Ray work extra hard on Frank’s behalf).

“About you being out of class, right?” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Frank tries not to whimper. “Sure. If anyone asks, you were showing me around.” Frank grins. He’s just gotten a free pass out of History, which, like, _fuck yeah_.

“Thanks,” he says, and Mr Way grins back. “You’d better get going, sir.” Mr Way’s face contorts back into the panicked expression.

“Shi- um, I should,” he says. “See you around…”

“Frank,” Frank supplies. Mr Way nods.

“Frank,” he says, and he smiles one more time before hurrying off down the corridor to the art classrooms.

Frank blinks, feeling the aftershocks of the whirlwind that is Mr Way settling in. Maybe art won’t be so bad this year.

-

“Dude,” Ray says, sitting down heavily at their table. The chocolate milk on his tray bounces dangerously as he slams it down, and some of the bolognese sauce spills over the side of his plate. Frank wonders if he can steal Ray’s chocolate milk without him noticing, since he’d been too late to get anything but normal milk.

“Yeah?” he says, eyeing the chocolate milk.

“Mr fuckin’ _Way_ ,” Ray says. Frank keeps one eye on the chocolate milk but begins to take interest in the conversation. “He’s so cool. _So_ cool. He gave us so much more freedom with our assignments, y’know? Like, Mrs Wilson totally creamed herself over still life and there’s only so much you can make out of a banana and a vase and, like, a fuckin’ deer skull, right? He outlined the senior assignment but basically said we could do whatever the fuck we wanted.”

“I met him already,” Frank puts in, reaching out and taking Ray’s chocolate milk. Ray notices, because he’s Ray and Frank is Frank (i.e. Ray is scrutinous and Frank is unsubtle) but lets him have it. Frank counts that as his daily victory against the world.

“When?” Ray asks.

“First period,” Frank says, shrugging as he struggles to open the chocolate milk. “I wasn’t planning on going to History and he was late.”

“Wait ‘til you get his teaching,” Ray says, watching the chocolate milk as it’s passed from Frank to Bob in order for him to open it. “He’s insane. Amazing, but insane.” Frank grins.

“I look forward to it,” he says.

-

The first time Frank has art is on Wednesday morning.

It’s a stiflingly hot day, for a Jersey August at least, so when Frank walks into the classroom he’s not surprised to see Mr Way’s sleeves rolled up just like they had been on Monday. He _is_ surprised to find the waistcoat and tie still intact.

“Dude,” Andrew says lowly, sitting down beside Frank. “Who the fuck is this?”

“New teacher,” Frank whispers back. “You not read your schedule either?” Andrew pulls a face.

“To see ‘Algebra: Mr Collins’ in black and white?” he says ruefully, and Frank giggles. He likes Andrew, who’s been his Art Buddy and sat next to him ever since since freshman year. He’s about to reply when someone sits down on Frank’s other side.

“Hey,” Frank says, to be polite. The person (who Frank is pretty sure doesn’t go to their school) blinks back at him.

“Hello,” he says.

“I’m Frank,” Frank says, because he’s never seen this guy before so it’s safe to assume he has no idea who Frank is either.

“I’m Mikey,” the guy says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I’m new.” _Oh_.

“This is Andrew,” Frank says, and Andrew leans forward and waves at Mikey. Mikey blinks back at him. Frank briefly wonders if he’s paralysed, or something similar. “Where did you transfer from?”

“Belleville,” Mikey says. Frank frowns. Belleville is only a fifteen minute drive from Queen of Peace. He’s about to ask why Mikey had transferred before he realizes that it’s kind of a personal question – maybe Mikey had been bullied really badly, or something. Before Frank can open his mouth to say anything, however, Mr Way is calling for quiet and the class hushes.

“So,” Mr Way says. “I’m new, so I don’t know any of you. So I’m going to go around and you’ll all introduce yourselves to me. Just tell me your name and something you like to do with art.” The desks are in a U-shape and Frank, Andrew and Mikey are sat right in the middle of the base of the U, so they have a while until it reaches them either way.

“Dude,” Andrew says quietly, as Katie introduces herself and says she likes Picasso’s work. “The fuck do we even know about art?”

“Fucking nothing,” Frank groans, as Josephine says her name and that she’s inspired by Klimt. “What the fuck am I going to say, my name’s Frank and I like comic books?”

“I don’t even like comic books,” Andrew groans. “Fuck, give me an artist. Katie already used Picasso, shit, you think I can get away with Rembrandt?”

“Worth a shot,” Frank says, and then Mikey’s introducing himself and Mr Way’s attention’s focused close enough to Frank that he can’t talk surreptitiously anymore.

“I’m Mikey, and I like Tim Burton.” Mr Way grins.

“Good choice,” he says, and then his eyes flick to Frank.

“I’m Frank, and I like comic books,” Frank says, because he genuinely hasn’t thought about anything better in the thirty seconds since that sarcastic comment. Andrew stifles a snort next to him.

“Comic books are an amazing expression of art,” Mr Way says seriously, nodding. Frank’s not sure if he’s making fun of him or not. “A lot of things are art if you look close enough.” And then the attention’s gone, switched to Andrew, and Frank can fucking _breathe_ again.

“You like comics?” an unfamiliar voice to his right says, and Frank’s startled until he remembers that New Kid Mikey is occupying that seat. 

“Uh, yeah,” Frank says. Mikey pushes his glasses up his nose again.

“Fuckin’ cool,” he says, and Frank grins.

“You too?” he asks. Mikey nods. “Awesome. Hey, you should come sit with me and my friends Bob and Ray at lunch.”

“Oh,” Mikey says, throwing a glance at Mr Way, whose attention is focused wholly on Lucy and her apparent interest in Andy Warhol. “I, uh, I kind of have other plans...?” Frank nods, trying to look understanding whilst simultaneously wondering who the fuck manages to make plans for lunch on their third day at a new school.

“Maybe some other time,” Frank says, and Mikey nods again.

“Alright,” Mr Way says, clapping his hands together and jolting everybody out of whatever reverie they’d been in (or in Andrew’s case, his current state of almost-asleep). “I know your old art teacher had a certain way of doing things, but I have a certain way of doing things too and I’m the teacher now, so things are going to be done my certain way instead of hers.”

“What?” Andrew asks after a beat. “Sir,” he adds as a hurried afterthought. Mr Way just smiles at him. Frank thinks he might get repetitive strain from smiling too much. It can’t be healthy.

“I mean, it looks like she made still life the only art form on the entire syllabus and I think art is a diverse range of things,” Mr Way explains. “For the senior assignment, which used to be still life, you’ll now be doing a project of your choosing. There are still certain rules – like, don’t do anything outside the bounds of the law – but the rest is pretty much all down to you. Choose a theme and create a piece of art about it.”

“Really?” Andrew whispers gleefully. “This might be even _easier_ than Mrs Wilson. I could just, like, drop some paper in a puddle and claim it’s a work of modern art surrounding the theme of social hierarchy or some bullshit. Fuck, I love art.”

“I’ll give you some time today to think of some themes and I’ll come round and talk to all of you about them, which will give you a rough idea of what you want to do. If you haven’t got a theme by the end of the lesson, don’t worry; we have time. Feel free to discuss it with the people around you!” Mr Way waves his arms around, which apparently cues conversation because everybody (Frank included) turns to their neighbor and starts talking excitedly.

“Dude,” Frank says to Andrew. “This is fucking awesome. I can totally draw a stick character comic book and say it’s a comment on today’s society, or something.” 

“You can draw stick characters?” Andrew says incredulously, laughing when Frank shoves him. “Hey, Mikey, what about you? You any good at art?” Mikey shrugs.

“A bit,” he says. “Aren’t you?” Andrew laughs and Frank shakes his head.

“We suck,” he tells Mikey.

“Yeah, we _blow_ ,” Andrew says emphatically. “I mean, I like the pretty shapes and colors, but I can’t do any of it myself.”

“Me either,” Frank says. “And I know fuck all about art or artists.”

“Oh,” Mikey says, and then a shadow in the form of Mr Way falls upon them, beaming.

“Have you thought of any themes yet?” he asks. Andrew puts on his best straight face.

“I was thinking about a piece on the expectations placed upon us all in the rigid framework of modern society,” he says seriously.

“Really?” Mr Way says interestedly. “What sort of a piece were you thinking of doing?”

“Modern art,” Andrew breezes. “I’m very interested in unconventional expressionism.”

“So I can see, for someone with an interest in Rembrandt,” Mr Way says, with a twinkle in his eye that says he knows that Andrew’s bullshitting but isn’t going to call him out on it.

“I’m going to do a piece on liberty,” Mikey says. All eyes turn to him, and he pushes his glasses up his nose again.

“That sounds good,” Mr Way says, grinning kind of softly at him. Frank's all for liberty and equality, but he's never _smiled softly_ at the thought of it. He hopes he’s not one of those liberal hippie types in disguise as a hot art teacher. “And you, Frank?”

“Um,” Frank says, panicking. He doesn’t want Mr Way to think he’s taking this class for the credits (which he totally is), but he also can’t do anything artistic that doesn’t involve his guitar or some lyrics. “Halloween.” He blurts out the first thing that comes into his mind – his birthday, which might make him look a little narcissistic but whatever, only Andrew knows that it’s his birthday. Mr Way does that fucking huge grin again, so Frank relaxes a little.

“That’s a brilliant idea,” he says enthusiastically. “There are so many directions you could take that in.”

“Uh, yeah,” Frank says. “That’s- yeah.” He kicks Andrew, who’s sniggering quietly, under the safety of the table.  

“Cool,” Mr Way says happily, pushing his sleeves back up where they’ve fallen a little down his forearm. His fingers are covered in charcoal and paint stains, but somehow his shirt sleeves are still pristine. Frank makes a mental note to ask Mr Way what washing powder he uses and recommend it to his mom for use on Frank’s gig clothes. “You’ve got some really great ideas.” He smiles at them again and wanders off to Katie and Josephine, who seem to be deep in debate.

“I totally bullshitted that one,” Andrew says proudly.

“Yeah, and he totally called you on it,” Frank says. Andrew flips him off after checking Mr Way’s back is turned.

“Whatever, he let me have it,” Andrew says, shrugging. “Possibly my new favorite teacher. And what the fuck, Halloween? Narcissistic asshole.” Frank elbows him.

“Not _my_ fault your birthday isn’t on the coolest day of the year, motherfucker,” he says, laughing when Andrew hits him upside the head.

“Your birthday’s on Halloween?” Mikey asks, and Frank nods. “That’s fuckin’ cool.”

“I know,” Frank says gleefully. “It’s my one redeeming feature.”

“Too true,” Andrew says, and Frank flips him off. Andrew chooses to ignore him, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands on the back of his head. “Man, this is going to be a good year. Despite Mr Collins.”

-

“Quit stealing my fries, Toro,” Frank grumbles, smacking Ray’s hand out of the way and taking one for himself. “Or at least do my fucking Calculus for me.”

“Nope,” Ray says, because he’s a horrible traitor who steals Frank’s food with no remorse.

“Fuck,” Frank swears. “What the fuck do these numbers mean?”

“Um,” a voice says, and Frank looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. It’s Mikey.

“Mikey! Hey, you came!”

“You took a lot of finding,” Mikey says warily, eyeing Bob, and Frank grins, patting the seat next to him. Mikey doesn’t move.

“This is Ray,” Frank says, and Ray waves dutifully, “and this is Bob.” Bob inclines his head at Mikey then goes back to reading whatever he was reading before. “This is Mikey,” Frank says, mostly for Ray’s benefit. “He’s in my art class.”

“Oh, sweet,” Ray says enthusiastically, because Ray actually both enjoys and is good at art. “You’re so lucky you joined this year, dude. You never had to suffer Mrs Wilson and her total boner for still life. Mr Way is _awesome_.” Mikey smiles a little bit at that, the tiniest hitch of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, _finally_ sliding himself into the seat next to Frank. “He _is_ awesome.”

“Mikey likes comics,” Frank announces, so that the conversation doesn’t die after Ray’s almost-profession of love for Mr Way. Ray brightens even more.

“Dude, really?” he asks.

“That’s cool,” Bob says, looking up from his reading material. “You like X-Men?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Fuckin’ love X-Men.”

“Sweet,” Bob says, returning to his reading.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Ray says happily. Frank feels like a proud mother.

-

For Frank to make it through a whole week of school without ending up in the principal’s office seems too good to be true – which is why, come Thursday, he’s sat in the familiar seat facing Miss Yang, the frowning receptionist, and whistling to himself, swinging his legs as he presses an ice pack to the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.

The door to Principal Kaine’s office opens and Keith (also known as the boy who’d started the fight in the first place, what the fuck, so why is Frank in trouble?) slouches out, glowering at Frank. Frank grins, because he’d rather take a bruise to the cheek than a bloody nose.

“You can go in, Frank,” Miss Yang says, still frowning, as if she disapproves of Frank for punching Keith in the nose. Which, okay, she may do, but she probably doesn’t know that Keith knocked over some tiny, terrified-looking freshman and laughed when her stuff went everywhere and trod on her brand new pencilcase. Frank definitely heard some pens snap.

“Please close the door behind you,” Principal Kaine says, sounding exhausted. Frank totally sympathizes. Any conversation with Keith would do the same to him. “And sit down, Frank. Welcome back.”

“To school, or to your office, ma’am?” Frank asks politely, but he takes up her offer and switches the ice pack to its other side.

“Both,” Principal Kaine says. “Honestly, Frank, I know you’re not one for staying out of trouble, but I wasn’t expecting to see you until at least the second week.” She sounds disappointed, like Frank’s let her down somehow, and Frank feels slightly guilty.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says sheepishly. “To be fair-” Principal Kaine puts up her hand to stop him.

“I know what Keith did,” she says wearily. “I don’t condone his actions, but I can’t condone yours either, Frank. You know violence isn’t the answer.” Frank shifts uneasily in his seat.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.” Principal Kaine sighs.

“You know how it is,” she says. “Detention. Miss Yang will write you up. Now, leave, and try to stay that way for as long as you can.”

-

Miss Yang informs him that his detention will be spent with the new teacher, Mr Way. Frank almost stops Keith in the hallway after Calculus and thanks him.

-

Detention’s an hour and a half after school on Thursday. Frank finds himself oddly nervous when he walks down the corridor to Mr Way’s classroom, and even straightens his untucked shirt self-consciously before knocking.

“Hm? Come in,” someone (presumably Mr Way) calls from inside, sounding distracted. Frank pushes the door open and walks in, clicking it shut behind him. Mr Way is rummaging for something in a very large cupboard, but turns around when Frank walks in.

“Frank?” He looks confused at first, and then a look of realisation dawns on his face and he grins. “Oh, Frank! Detention, right?” Frank nods sheepishly, and Mr Way laughs, a loud, honking laugh. It should sound completely ridiculous, and it kind of does, but in a way that makes Frank want to secretly record it on his phone and listen to it on the drive to school to cheer himself up when Bob slows down at yet another green light. “They wrote the reason as you getting into a fight. Is that true?” He looks intrigued, not disapproving, so Frank nods again.

“I punched Keith Walters in the nose, sir,” he says. Mr Way laughs that laugh again. 

“It was still bleeding by last period,” he informs Frank, and Frank can’t contain the grin that slips onto his face. Fucker deserved it. “Is that from him?” He nods at Frank, eyes focused on his right cheek, and Frank brings his fingers up to his face subconsciously, brushing over the bruise.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve had worse, though.” Mr Way looks intrigued again.

“You have?” he says, and then catches himself and attempts to turn on Responsible Teacher Mode. “I mean, like. You probably shouldn’t do that?”

“People shouldn’t be assho- rude, then,” Frank says. “Uh. What do you want me to do, sir?” Mr Way, who’s got an odd kind of smile on his face, shakes himself out of it immediately.

“Oh, right,” he says. “Um, actually, I don’t think I have anything for you to do? You can work on your project, if you want. Or, like, do whatever else. I don’t really care. I mean, like, I don’t not care, I just don’t mind, y’know?” Frank wishes he would try to be less endearing. Or maybe Frank’s the problem, finding hot older teachers of his endearing. Whatever; unattainability has always been a thing of Frank’s. It saves him actually falling for people.

“I have some Calculus I’d like to get done?” Frank offers, and Mr Way nods.

“Sure!” he says. “You can sit anywhere, by the way.” He waves his hand at the empty tables, and Frank smiles at him.

“Thank you, sir,” he says. “Um. Can I listen to music?” Mr Way looks surprised, as if he’s wondering why Frank’s asking him for permission, before possibly realising that Frank’s in detention with him and nodding enthusiastically.

“Of course!” he says. “How long are you here for?”

“An hour and a half,” Frank says. Mr Way nods.

“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly lost in some thought other than Frank. “Oh! You can go and sit down, or whatever.” Frank nods and does so, walking around the desks in a dignified manner rather than slinging his bag on one desk and vaulting over another like he’s itching to do. Mr Way probably wouldn’t have noticed, anyway, because he’s back to rooting in his cupboard.

Frank gets out the fucking impossible Calculus homework that Mrs Onobanjo had set approximately thirty seconds after collecting the previous fucking impossible Calculus homework from the class, and his phone. He sees a text from Ray saying something along the lines of ‘how the fuck did you get detention in the first week back you’re fucking impossible’ when he’s unravelling his headphones, and pauses to explain to Ray that it wasn’t his _fault_ , okay, Keith should know better than to be an asshole in Frank’s vicinity. Eventually, though, Frank has his headphones in, Bouncing Souls blasting louder than his mother would probably like, Calculus homework out, and he sets to work.

Frank either immerses himself completely in his work or gets extremely easily distracted and writes three words in twice as many hours. Today seems to be a complete immersion day, which Frank’s kind of grateful for because it’s tough enough to do Calculus without getting distracted by, like, the fucking _air_.

He’s interrupted by way of a tap on the shoulder in the middle of a particularly horrific question on functions which Frank thought he knew the answer to but fucked up halfway through without realising so has now had to go back and redo. Frank pulls his headphones out and looks up at the source of interruption – Mr Way.

“Sir?” he asks. Mr Way bites his lip.

“Uh,” he says. “Do you know anything about the electronic registering system?” As a matter of fact, Frank does, because he’s had to flirt with Kathy the attendance-slash-nice-part-time-receptionist enough times to change his late arrival or early departure from school.

“Um,” Frank says, searching for an answer.

“I just thought,” Mr Way says, then stops. “I don’t know. You’ve been here four years, I’ve been here four days. Surely you’ve seen them do roll call, or whatever.” Frank nods, relieved. Mr Way doesn’t seem the type to tell on him for getting his attendance changed once or twice (or ten, or twenty times), but just because he has a pretty face and swears doesn’t mean he can be trusted.

“Yeah,” he says. “Queen of Peace are pretty vigorous with their roll calls and registers.” Mr Way huffs out a laugh.

“I know,” he says. “I’ve just had an email from the receptionist asking me to please fill in all my registers for today. Again. I just keep forgetting, y’know?” Frank nods, even though he doesn’t know, because every other teacher seems to use Frank’s presence (or lack thereof) as a reminder to take roll call.

“Anyway,” Mr Way says, waving his hands in that dismissive way of his. “I’ve fu- uh, messed up the registering somehow, and I marked a sophomore in as absent when she was actually there, and I don’t know how to change it. She might as well _not_ have been there, y’know, because she wasn’t paying _any_ attention to the lesson. Maybe I should make a seating plan for the sophomores. So yeah, can you help with that?” He looks hopeful, and Frank nods. He knows _exactly_ how this works.

“Sure,” Frank says, scraping back his chair with a horrifying screech and walking around to where Mr Way has his school laptop open on his desk. Mr Way follows him, standing behind him when Frank leans down and presses the unlock symbol that will enable Mr Way to overwrite the current information. It’s disconcerting, having Mr Way this close, because Frank can literally feel his stare, even though it’s focused on the screen.

“That was easy,” Mr Way remarks, sounding surprised when Frank draws back. Frank shrugs.

“Once you get used to it,” he agrees. Mr Way smiles, that grin that lights up his entire face and makes Frank’s innards hurt.

“Thanks!” he says brightly, and Frank smiles back, averting his eyes before he falls over and knocks Mr Way down with him lands on Mr Way’s crotch or something equally embarrassing.

“I’ll let you get back to your Calculus, sorry,” Mr Way apologizes, and Frank must have pulled a face because he laughs. “Or not?”

“No, I’ll never do it if I don’t do it now,” Frank sighs. Mr Way nods understandingly.

“I get it,” he says. “I flunked Calculus like, every semester. And did no work. Well, I did work, but apparently doodling on my work made it unreadable? Like, it’s not as if I was drawing _huge_ things across my workings. They just sometimes got incorporated into a comic strip, or a vampire, or something.”

“Yeah, I don’t think Mrs Onobanjo will be pleased if I start doodling Pennywise all over my homework,” Frank says, grinning. Mr Way’s eyes light up.

“You like Stephen King?” he asks enthusiastically. “Oh, man, that’s _such_ a great film adaptation.”

“I didn’t think it was that great, sir,” Frank disagrees.

“What?” Mr Way asks, looking horrified. “The casting was fu- um, absolutely perfect. Tim Curry’s voice, man. His _voice_. I had nightmares for like, a week.” He’s clearly warming to his subject, and opens to his mouth again, probably to talk about how good the casting of the children was (which, okay, Frank can’t exactly argue with that) but abruptly closes it again. “Sh- um, you need to do your Calculus, don’t you?” Frank really wishes he hadn’t said that, because he’d much rather argue with Mr Way about the shitty adaptation of one of his favorite books, but he can’t start giving homework in late in the first week of school after already being in a physical altercation. Principal Kaine might have an aneurysm.

“Probably,” Frank says, sighing heavily. Mr Way smiles guiltily and Frank takes that as his cue to skirt back around the desks and return to the depths of hell in paper form. He doesn’t put his headphones in this time, though, listening to the sounds of Mr Way humming and occasionally breaking into song as he walks around the room, doing whatever he’s doing. He’s quite good, actually; he can carry a tune with no trouble at all and has a pretty impressive range as well as an interesting way of enunciating and pronouncing the words. Frank likes it.

Eventually, four p.m. rolls around and Frank starts packing up his stuff to leave. He does so much more slowly than he’s probably ever done in his life, but Mr Way doesn’t even notice, completely oblivious as he roots around in the shelves (for at least the fourth time since Frank came in, what the fuck).

“Um,” Frank says when he’s all packed up and hovering by the door and Mr Way _still_ hasn’t noticed he’s about to leave. “My detention’s over, sir, so, uh, I’m going home.” Mr Way sticks his head out from behind the cupboard door, as if he’s surprised an hour and a half has already passed, and nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Thanks for helping me out with the- that system thing.” Frank can’t hide his smirk, and Mr Way frowns at him playfully. “No teasing me,” he says bossily. “I’m a teacher.” _Could’ve fooled me_ is on the tip of Frank’s tongue, ready and raring to go, but Frank bites it back. He doesn’t want to push the boundaries and upset Mr Way or get himself into trouble for being disrespectful.

“See you tomorrow,” Frank says. Mr Way grins.

“I can tell you more about why you’re fucking _wrong_ about It being a shitty movie adaptation,” he says, and then his eyes widen as he realizes he swore. Twice. He stays like that for a moment, before scowling and relaxing. “Oh, what the hell, school finished a fucking hour and a half ago and you swear enough around Andrew and Mikey. Fuck, this is good. _Shit_. Sorry, sorry, don’t mind me,” he adds hastily. Frank seriously considers picking up the nearest sharp implement and stabbing himself in the heart with it, because Mr Way is giving him this slightly nervous look that completely suits the open, earnest face he’s got going on. If Mr Way is one of those I’m-acting-nice-and-down-with-the-kids actors, he’s kind of shit at it, but in a way that makes him the best possible at it.

“See you tomorrow,” Frank repeats, and Mr Way beams and echoes him. Frank smiles and tears his eyes away from Mr Way, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and smudges of charcoal and some kind of colored medium on his hands and forearms, tie slightly crooked, hair a little wild. He looks _gorgeous_.

Frank resolves to send Keith a thank-you card and possibly a bouquet of roses.

-                                                                                                                                 

The only good thing about Frank’s schedule is that Friday afternoon is art, meaning after a long day of toiling during Biology and Chemistry (which has become extremely boring since Frank was banned from any lab work after an experiment involving too much potassium and the construction of an entirely new classroom interior) he can look forward to a whole afternoon of relaxing and doing almost fuck all.

“Afternoon!” Mr Way says cheerfully as they file into the classroom after lunch. Mikey had eaten lunch with Frank, Ray and Bob again today, talking almost animatedly about the merits and demerits of Evil Dead and Evil Dead II with them, and then walking to art with Frank. He’s beginning to thaw out a little, and Frank thinks he could get on very well with Mikey.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Andrew says, sitting down in his seat next to Frank.

“Hello to you too,” Frank says.

“Hey, Mikey,” Andrew says, and Mikey nods at him, pushing up his glasses afterwards. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking, and I think I could make a collage of white paper and stamp on it and claim it’s the besmirching of pure human souls by the corporate world and- oh, um, hello, sir,” he cuts himself off hurriedly when a smiling Mr Way pops up out of apparently nowhere.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account, Andrew, carry on,” he says, and he has that twinkle in his eye again. Frank snorts, not even bothering to hide it and not caring when Andrew elbows him. Fucker deserves it.

“Well, um, I-“

“Andrew,” Mr Way says. “I’m absolutely willing to let you get away with this total bullsh- nonsense, but the project title is so loosely defined that you could _easily_ find a theme you actually care about and have a passion for and make a piece of, er, nonsense about that.” Andrew has the grace to look sheepish.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, and he actually sounds it. Frank marks it down as an Andrew Foster First.

“Try and find a theme, okay?” Mr Way says, not unkindly, and then he’s gone again, wandering off to Lucy and Jake.

“How does he _do_ that?” Andrew demands. “I feel so fucking guilty now. I bullshitted three years’ worth of work for Mrs Wilson and she never made me feel guilty about it. Why the fuck do I feel guilty?” Frank places his hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

“Because you’re a good person, kiddo,” he says in a deep voice, and Andrew shrugs off his hand, laughing a little. “Seriously, though, he does kind of have a point. Just do that white paper collage on, I don’t know, the besmirching of human souls through the incessant watching of shitty chick flicks.” Andrew rolls his eyes.

“I _don’t_ watch shitty chick flicks,” he insists, even though Frank totally knows he does. “Whatever, there’ll be something I can do it on. Fuck, dude, I’m not meant to bend to the system. I’m meant to stick it to the _man_ ,” he whines.

“What better way to stick it to the man than to infiltrate his system and strike from within?” Mikey points out suddenly.

“A good point, Mikey,” Frank agrees. “Criminal mastermind in the making.” Mikey’s mouth twitches in that little smile again, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Hey, c’mon though, Andrew, you’ve got lots of things you like.”

“Yeah, you tell me a theme that incorporates GTA,” Andrew mutters.

“Death?” Frank offers. Andrew throws him an incredulous look. “I always die in GTA,” he says defensively.

“A comment on the fleetingness of youth?” Mikey says, and both Frank and Andrew turn to him. He pushes his glasses up his nose again. “I mean, GTA’s all about, like, the sex and the drugs and the instant pleasure, right? And it’s in the form of a videogame, so you can talk about the instant stimuli that the youth of today crave and its different forms or whatever. But then you can contrast it with the missions and the determination and skill needed to like, finish the game, or whatever. And, like, that reflects on how fleeting youth is. Or, y’know.” His glasses have slipped down his nose after such a long speech, and he pushes them up again.

“Dude,” Andrew says, staring at Mikey in awe. “You’re a fucking genius.” Mikey’s mouth twitches in that little smile again.

“Alright!” Mr Way says loudly, and everybody quietens down. “You all seem to have an idea of what your theme is going to be, so we’ll start the next step of the brainstorming.” He walks up to the huge blackboard at the front of the classroom and picks up a piece of chalk. “What is art?”

“An expression of something,” Lucy volunteers.

“Good,” Mr Way nods, writing it down in sprawling handwriting off the bubble in the middle that says ‘What is art?’.

“Something that is created simply for enjoyment and no other purposes,” Daniel says. Mr Way pauses, chalk halfway to the board.

“What about art created to send a political or social message?” he says.

“Propaganda,” Daniel says. Mr Way grins, and writes his suggestion down on the board.

“Art is what you want it to be,” Andrew says. “I mean, like, I could say my kneecap is art and that would make it art, to me.”

“Art is in the eye of the beholder,” Frank puts in, and Mr Way turns to him with that twinkle in his eye. Frank tries to ignore the butterflies that decide now is a great time to use his stomach as a home.

“Precisely why I wrote Daniel’s suggestion down,” he says. “Art is what we make it, like Andrew says. So, a new spin on the question. What counts as art forms?”

“Drawing,” about twelve people chorus. Mr Way chuckles and writes it down.

“Music,” Andrew says.

“Sculpting,” Lucy says.

“Dance and drama,” Josephine says. Mr Way’s struggling to write them all down and seems to be resorting to shorthand (or maybe his handwriting’s just deteriorating).

“Literature,” Mikey says.

“All correct,” Mr Way says, finishing off the ‘e’ in literature with a flourish and turning to the class. “And all acceptable for the assignment. However, there must be a mixture of at least two mediums, and I don’t want to have just a haiku as the final piece unless you want to explain that to the principal yourself.” He grimaces. “So you have to draw or sculpt _something_ at least, so Principal Kaine doesn’t roast my ass.” The class laughs, a little stunned by the frankness of their teacher. Other teachers usually sugarcoat situations like this, or just don’t offer any explanation.

“We have just under an hour left, so let’s start the project drafts and brainstorm ideas for what you might want to do. Feel free to-” but the class already knows how that sentence is going to end, so they burst into conversation, drowning out his last few words.

“I can _not_ draw anything to do with Halloween,” Frank says immediately. “I can’t draw a fucking jack-o-lantern, let alone a _skeleton_.”

“Since when have you drawn anything you’ve handed in?” Andrew asks, and okay, he kind of has a point there, but something in Frank’s gut is telling him that he’ll get that horrible guilty feeling Andrew had if he doesn’t do at least some of the work himself this time. It’s definitely nothing to do with that beaming smile of Mr Way’s and the fact that Frank wants to elicit it as much as possible.

“Whatever,” Frank grumbles, leaning back in his chair.

“At least you can submit some of your emo lyrics now,” Andrew points out, and Frank kicks him and nearly falls backwards off his chair, losing his balance. He panics and flails, not wanting to be that one child every teacher has somehow seen die from rocking on their chair, and falls back forwards, nearly smashing his face into the table with the force of the swing. Mikey snorts, and Andrew rolls his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Frank says, with no real heat behind the words. “I don’t write emo lyrics.”

“My brother writes lyrics,” Mikey says suddenly.

“Yeah?” Frank says. “They any good?” Mikey shrugs.

“I think so,” he says.

“The highest praise,” Andrew declares, and Frank giggles.

“What does he do with them?” Frank asks. Mikey shrugs again.

“Keeps them,” he says. “He doesn’t write music, really? I mean, he can play guitar kind of okay, and he can sing but won’t admit it, so.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. Frank frowns.

“Shame,” he says. “Good lyricists are hard to come by.”

“This sounds like a good discussion,” Mr Way notes. “Are you thinking of putting music into your piece, Frank?”

“Uh, am I allowed, sir?” Mr Way grins.

“Anything goes!” he says, waving his arms enthusiastically. He stops, and frowns. “I mean, you have to draw something too, though. Or sculpt something, or whatever. But music’s fu- really awesome too.” He bites his lip and laughs slightly awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“I’m going to draw,” Mikey says.

“Of course,” Mr Way says, as if it’s obvious. “Andrew?”

“Same, sir,” he says. “Probably,” he tacks on after a moment of thought. Mr Way smiles, and turns to Frank.

“Frank?”

“Uh,” Frank says. Ray can draw, but Frank really, _really_ can’t. And the idea of sculptures sounds kind of cool because Frank doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty and he’d probably be working with clay or something similar. “Probably sculpting?”

“You could make a graveyard with loads of things in it,” Andrew suggests. “I mean, they’d probably have to be stick-figure things, but whatever.” Frank shoots him a glare, but Andrew just laughs. Mr Way does too, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes Frank want to immerse himself in the River Jordan.

“I think it’s a good idea,” he says eventually. “There’s a lot you can do with this theme, Frank.”

“Maybe you can put Pennywise in the graveyard,” Mikey says suddenly (everything Mikey says seems sudden, because he’s silent for so long whereas Frank can’t shut the fuck up). Frank looks surprised – that’s a fucking creepy coincidence, that Mikey chooses Pennywise of all the horror villains, after Frank and Mr Way’s talk last night.

“Yeah, maybe…the _book_ version,” Frank says pointedly (to Mikey so it doesn’t seem as rude), and Mr Way makes a noise of outrage.

“Frank!” he says, sounding and looking genuinely scandalized, and Frank has to hold back a laugh. “The film version is a _perfectly acceptable_ adaptation, okay?”

“What the f- hell is Pennywise?” Andrew asks cluelessly. Mr Way looks even _more_ scandalized.

“Sir,” Lucy says, interrupting before Mr Way can explain in his long-winded manner, “I sketched out a rough idea for what I want it to look like, can you come and have a look?” Mr Way closes his mouth, turns to her and nods.

“Tell him about Pennywise, Mikey,” Mr Way says as he walks off in Lucy’s wake, as if he doesn’t trust Frank to tell Andrew.

“It’s a character in this cool movie adaptation of a Stephen King novel,” Mikey says to Andrew, and Frank groans. People with shitty movie tastes clearly have some sort of radar for other people with shitty movie tastes.

“It’s terrible,” Frank says. “The movie adaptation, I mean. Mr Way and I had a talk about it in detention last night.” Andrew raises his eyebrows and leans back in his chair.

“Mr Way certainly is something, isn’t he?” he says. Frank hums his agreement.

“A good something,” he adds. Andrew rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘you _would_ think that, he’s your _type_ ’ which Frank manfully ignores, shaking his head and turning back to the table in front of him. He thinks he catches the tail of a small, fond smile on Mikey’s lips, but it’s gone so fast that Frank thinks it might just have been a trick of the light. Even Frank’s not at the stage of small, fond smiles yet.


End file.
